


The Last, Not Least

by DaughterofProspero



Category: King Lear - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst, Babies, Backstory, Childbirth, Children, Death in Childbirth, Father-Daughter Relationship, Mild Blood, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofProspero/pseuds/DaughterofProspero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!<br/>Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow,<br/>Thy element's below! Where is this daughter?"</p><p>Cordelia: Latin - "heart"<br/>The youngest and most precious of Lear's daughters entered this world at a cost. Some resent her, some forgive - caught somewhere in between them is her father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last, Not Least

Everyone wept the day Cordelia was born. She doesn’t remember it of course, but that’s what her sisters always told her. Everyone was _bawling_ , no one was happy she was around, if Daddy had had a choice he would rather keep Mommy than _her_. Cordelia would bite her lip and not respond, waiting until her sisters left the room before pressing a doll to her face and crying into the fabric of it’s dress.

She never told on Goneril or Regan, but once approached her father, rocking back and forth from the heels to the balls of her feet, looking at the floor. She didn’t speak until he crouched down (with some trouble) to her level and asked her what was wrong.

“Were people mad at me when I was born? Was it because of Mommy? I didn’t mean to…hurt…I didn’t…I didn’t…” her small voice trails off into wet sniffles. Lear is taken aback by the sudden seemingly random bout of self-loathing from his normally placid daughter. He opens his arms and she falls into him, leaning her head against his shoulder. He pats her back and says

“I miss Mommy very much, but it wasn’t your fault. We – people were sad but not because of you, my heart, don’t blame yourself for anything. Why don’t you go get ready for bed.” It comes off like a well-meaning order as opposed to a suggestion. He sends her off with a last reassuring pat on her head and obediently she goes, resolve against her sister’s antagonistic ways strengthening. God willing she’ll feel better in the morning.

Breathing a sigh of release more than relief, Lear runs his fingers through his silver hair. Not for the first time, he questions his parental skills, wishing – somewhat more ashamedly than usual – that his wife were here to give him some hint as to how one goes about telling one’s child that they aren’t the root of their family’s sorrow.

In truth, there _were_ tears abound on the day of Cordelia’s birth, some from joy, some from sadness – most a mix of both, none flowing more freely than from the Queen herself.

Regan’s birth had nearly taken Her Majesty’s life, leaving the Queen bedridden until Regan had learned to walk. An unspoken agreement between husband and wife was formed: no more children. But as the years went by and Lear felt himself growing older, he couldn’t help but think of a son. An heir, Hell, just another _man_ to even the numbers between his wife and two fussy daughters. They never tried for another child, but perhaps with coercion from The King they grew less careful.

Soon after Regan’s seventh birthday, The Queen told her husband the news: She was pregnant. Never had Lear felt guiltier of elation as the danger his wife was in grew more and more apparent. By the sixth month she was bedridden again – partially because of her waning strength, and partially because she’d had multiple fainting spells – too perilous for the unborn child. Lear always referred the fetus as “he” and looking back, realized his wife never disagreed with him, but never agreed either.

Early one morning, in her eighth month, a long moan woke Lear from his sleep. As he came to consciousness he realized it was coming from his wife, who was tensed next to him; a sheen of sweat covering her body like a second skin. The bedding around her was damp – her water had broken.

Rousing the castle, Lear summons the midwife, though he does not remember doing so. He must have though, because soon she arrives and rushes into the royal bedchamber, a host of servants with supplies right behind her. Goneril and Regan are annoyed by the commotion and sent to stay in the nursery until the ordeal is finished. Had they known this was their last chance to see their mother they might have objected more harshly. They sit for hours imagining what their new brother would be like.

Back in the bedroom, the Queen is now in the full throes of labour. One hand grasping the bedsheets so hard they nearly tear, the other wrapped in a bony vise around her husband’s. Calls of “push” and “crowning” are barely registered by Lear who’s near catatonic in the effort to keep himself from running from the room. He refuses to acknowledge how it feels like he’s the only thing anchoring his wife to this world.

Her screams, though no less tortured, grow weaker by the second and it looks as though she’s been stabbed with the amount of blood that’s soaking into the mattress. The heady smell of life and death mingle together unnaturally.

Finally, the baby comes out. Lear has never seen something so small. It is a miracle this being is alive. A tuft of dark hair plastered to it’s head with fluids, hands and feet impossibly detailed in their diminutive form. Completely taken by the existence of his child, a barely perceptible squeeze to his hand brings his attention back to his wife. His dying wife.

Her skin is the colour of curdled milk, the veins accented like poisoned rivers running through a wasteland. Eyes glassy and brimming with tears ready to take the place of the ones running down her sallow cheeks. In a voice as feeble as her child’s cry, she speaks.

“See…let me…see.”

Lear snaps an order to the midwife, already fussing about with cleaning the baby off. Hastily swaddling it, the woman hands the baby to it’s mother, who beams as well as she can. No one says anything while mother and daughter are introduced for the last time – though Lear is unwilling to think on it further. All too soon, her husband is forced to remove the child from her embrace as her breaths are uneven and raspy. She is too frail, even to cough.

“Love her.”

 _Her_. Something in the King shatters when he hears the dread pronoun. He peeks under the blanket and sure enough – a girl. Anguish floods him. Anguish and rage, regret, and loathing: For the girl, for the world, for betting with his wife and losing. The Queen repeats herself, cutting through the red mist in Lear with her honest blue eyes.

“Love her. For me. With all your heart…and mine…Love her. Love her…love…”

The Queen breathes her last.

Lear stands on a shrinking precipice, the world crumbling away around him. This is to be the dénouement to his life as a father: Guesswork for the rest of his lonely days. He never wants to see a child again, to block out the sound of their incessant wailing, to feel his wife’s hand steadying his own, already speckled with age spots.

And then the girl opens her eyes. Blessedly silent and impossibly small, nestled against her father; she looks up at him. She stares into his tired face, unjudging; and he looks right back into her honest blue eyes.

Everyone wept the day Cordelia was born. The Kingdom for losing it’s gracious queen. Goneril and Regan for not understanding – where was there mother, where was their brother, what is this other baby doing here, put it back. Cordelia herself, for what else could an infant do? And Lear, having to love enough for two people this tiny, last hope _. Love her. With all your heart and mine_.

“I will love you. My heart. My Cordelia.”

**Author's Note:**

> DAY 15/30  
> HALFWAY DONE, WOOP!  
> A King Lear piece - something new.  
> So complex, bruh. My image of why yet another Shakespearean mother is absent, and why she's the favourite. Sort of. Meh, close enough. Had to play with "heart" and "Cordelia" because names.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
